Sorry for the delay! This is my second time through this post, which blogger way kind enough to lose before I posted it! On a phone, each of these takes a couple hours to write, which I really enjoy doing... But that can take a while in the midst of sightseeing and sleeping.
--Rain--
Overnight at Paine Grande it rained. My tent is quite good, so it was nice and dry inside, but the outside was definitely wet. The eastern sun created a beautiful rainbow over the mountains to the west, however this was not a good omen; the forecast at breakfast was for two days of rain.
What was a good sign it's that when we finished our camp breakfast (eggs, cereal, yogurt, toast, etc), the wind had been strong enough to totally dry our tent. We packed up and hit the trail, having donned waterproof coats, trousers, and pack covers in an attempt to shield ourselves from the inevitable rain showers.
On this day, we would hike 7.5 km (5 mi) along the first lobe of the W up to Italiano camp. From there we would drop our backpacks and take day bags on an out-and-back trip of ambiguous distance (signs and maps varied from 11-15km) to see two viewpoints making up the middle prong of the W. We'd finish with an easy 1-2 km getting to Frances Camp on the second lobe.
As predicted, we had showers intermittently through the morning. These were matched by intermittent winds that dried off our gear. Thermal regulation proved difficult, as the wind was cold, but hiking with a backpack was hot.
The lobe part of the trail was quite reasonable and we made great time. Views to the south looked out over the immense Lago Nordenskjold. The sun shined through the irregular clouds, and we regularly had sun-rain.
When we got to Italiano, we found a massive pile of backpacks and a handful of particularly unhappy hikers. It seemed like they were not having a good time with the rain and wind. Thankfully our spirits were high.
Setting off from Italiano, I had a crazy realization. We'd quickly prepared our day bags with a few odds and ends, but this side bar was not a short spur... 15 km (10 mi) with 2000+ feet gain was a serious day hike. We had food and first aid kit, but I'd typically pack much more for an equivalent hike in the US. Fingers crossed.
The trail climbed steeply at first, going along the narrow ridge of a moraine, the right side of a river valley. As we climbed we could look across the valley to our left and see where successive moraines marked the farthest extent of a glacier at different times in its past life.
As we continued, we picked up a massive river, gushing its way down to the floor of the valley. We also picked up some nice views behind us and we could see over Lago Nordenskjold and beyond it was blue skies with nice puffy clouds. The golden plain contrasted beautifully with the turquoise lake.
Up and up we went, crossing from one moraine to another until finally we came out at a viewpoint: Mirador Frances (not to be confused with Frances Camp). Even as we had gained considerable elevation, there across the valley a gigantic vertical cliff face towered thousands of feet overhead. Blue-tinted glaciers appeared to be draped like cloth over different parts of the mountain, although in some places this "cloth" was bunched up at a shear drop off, somehow defying the force of gravity. That said, we heard a thunderous explosion from the very peak and we looked up to see a huge cloud of powdery snow, a smoking gun for an available that had occurred moments earlier.
Patagonia has a way of always bringing you back to your immediate surrounding. As we stood at the Mirador with a few others, a sudden burst of wind exploded across the moraine. Many of us staggered in the icy wind while others dropped to lower their center of gravity. The fierce wind persisted and Ellie and I decided to press on.
After passing a surprising and depressing sign that said 3km to the second viewpoint, Mirador Britanico, we reentered the woods. These woods offered some shelter from the wind and we were grateful.
As we walked I admired the deep brown soil of the trail. In reflection, I noted that we had already seen lots of different trail and geologic conditions. Before the trek was out, we would walk on silt, clay, and sand; over granite slabs, slate outcrops, and quartz scree; through mud and bog and pasture; dirt trails, gravel tracks, and rocky roads. This trek had it all. But the dark brown of the Grimm woods was both mysterious and delightful.
And then... The sky closed up. The sun was gone and we walked under misty overcast skies. We came to a clearing as it started to shower and what should have been a magnificent 360-degree (2π radian) view of the valley rim was totally enshrouded. Off in the distance a small rock outcrop with a tiny red dot protruded from the canopy - the Mirador Britanico.
It's hard to imagine, but this landscape makes even the mighty 3 m (9 ft) condor look like a tiny songbird.
About an hour later we reached the base of the outcrop that was anything but tiny. The red dot, of course, had been a person; now it was our turn to be someone else's dots. The outcrop took a solid 15 minutes to climb, and a sign there indicated it was the end of the trail. With nothing to see but the low cloud ceiling, we ducked into the woods to take shelter and have lunch.
Sandwich? Bah. I've never torn through a roll, 4 slices of cheese, and a half a salami faster in my life. #caloriedeficient
As we sat and demolished our food, it started to snow a wet, sleety snow. I imagine the air temp was around 2C (36F), but the chill felt well below freezing. With gloves set aside to eat, our hands quickly froze, becoming icy and chilled. Having been sweaty and wet, our bodies also rapidly cooled. The layers were insufficient for the length of break we were taking at that elevation. Frustratingly, pockets of blue started to poke through the cloud. We waited five more minutes but decided we HAD to get moving and give up the hope of our view.
The descent was rapid. We had 9 km to make it to camp - and we didn't want to be out in the windy rain longer than we needed. It was then, going through the woods, that Ellie crashed to the ground and yelped in pain.
A turned ankle. Cold weather. Hypothermia. Miles from help. The panic. The fear of a helicopter rescue. Quitting the trek. All these things flash through a hiker's mind in an instant. Every hiker has been there, and in that moment it was Ellie's rite of passage.
We assessed the situation. Thankfully, there was no immediate deformation of the ankle. No discoloration. After a few minutes, good mobility. She stood up and could bear weight well, without a limp. We got lucky.
Ankles are like that - feels like death and often turns out fine.
To jump to the punch line, that night Ellie had some swelling, so we bandaged it up in a compress. She had no serious impairment, however, so she was able to finish the trek. Thank goodness for that.
While the physical ailment turned out ok, the next challenge was psychological. There we were, 8km from camp and with over 40 km left on the W, and Ellie was justly scared. When a hiker falls, it's natural to doubt one's own capability. You second-guess every foot placement. Every step becomes mentally exhausting. You fear the endless miles ahead.
I applaud Ellie for conquering her fears coming out of the valley, for, while I never doubted her, she had to prove to herself that she could do it. And she was great. She was an extremely competent hiker even in that moment when she didn't believe in herself.
By the time we reached Italiano, the sun had come out again. The mountains behind us were still in cloud however, so we had made the right decision to quit. We reassimilated our day packs into our backpacks and proceeded the remaining k kilometer into Frances Camp.
22 km, almost 2500 ft gain, cold, wet, windy, and tiring.
*******
--Wind--
The Frances Camp is located on a forested hillside at the West end of the second lobe of the W. It's so steep that the only camping is on elevated platforms. The back edge of each is at ground level while the front edge is some 5-6 feet off the ground. Without railings (OSHA, anyone?) one has to be very careful not to step off the edge.
We set up the tent and anchored it to the platform using a plethora of guy lines. Without stakes, the lines were important for ensuring the tent wouldn't go anywhere. Good thing too! We learned from backpackers the next day that several texts at the next site along the trail had collapsed in the wind. We didn't want that.
Frances was quite a primitive site, so we made our own food (good old chilean cup ramen) in a shared shelter with two amazing people from Santiago. Friendly and warm, they were keen to talk to us about culture, travel, home, and the trek. We had a great time. Gio and Carla told us about their O-trek (connecting the tops of the W trek) and how they had struggled with weather too.
There's a certain backpacker culture around the world, where you readily meet people on the trail and at campsites. Everyone realizes that they're on the trail together, and so getting to know each other provides a level of safety, companionship, friendship, and knowledge sharing. But beyond the backpacker culture, Ellie and I consistently found that Chileans and Argentinians were extremely kind, funny, and welcoming. So it was really lovely to spend time with our new friends.
That night it rained quite a bit. The wind didn't seem to make it to the ground level, so we had to pack a wet tent into our backpacks. Prepared for another misty, windy, long day, we set out.
Funny enough though, the forecast didn't transpire. By late morning the clouds blew off and the sun came out with reckless abandon. Layers were shed as we baked in the sun, but the strong wind meant we had to keep our waterproofs on.
The day three trail followed the second lobe of the W for about 10 km. It was mostly across open pasture, which was very muddy and boggy in places. We then started to climb diagonally across the slope, peeling away from Nordenskjold and up towards the entrance to the ravine.
And let me tell you, that was one steep slope!
Finally around noon we turned the corner into the ravine at a place called Paso de Viento: windy pass. What a joke! The whole of Patagonia could be called windy pass, for it felt like we were being blown around from the moment we landed in El Calafate. But it turns out, it wasn't a joke. The gusts in the pass, high above the Rio Ascensio, were easily capable of taking someone off their feet. Thanks to the heavy pack, I felt a bit more grounded than the day hikers coming in. Still, I staggered towards the embankment on my left, keen not to be pushed down into the steep valley on my right.
After a few kilometers hiking into the valley, we arrived at our final resting place: Chileno Camp. It was only 3pm when we made camp there on the banks of the Rio Ascensio, which was an extremely welcome change to the previous days' adventures. In the ski chalet-style dining hall we grabbed some beers (Patagonia Austral Lager!) and prepared to relax our way into the evening. We looked out the full height windows.
Across the river, way up in the sky, the magnificent Torres del Paine peeked over a mountain ridge in the sun.